Hollywood actress and singer Joy Villa recently became the first celebrity Scientologist to publicly speak out after leaving the controversial Church, after reaching a low point at Scientology’s UK headquarters in Sussex. Now, Joy tells us her story.

I gave 15 years of my life—and nearly $2 million of my earnings—to Scientology. And for most of that time, I truly believed I was on the path to spiritual freedom. As a 23 year old woman with big artistic dreams and a painful past, Scientology found me at my most fragile.

They sold me a dream. A promise of enlightenment. Power. Control over my thoughts, my trauma, my destiny. As a young woman trying to rebuild after abuse and human trafficking, I was vulnerable. They knew that. And they used it.

At the Celebrity Centre in Los Angeles, I was treated like a star—because that’s exactly what they wanted me to feel like. The staff were impeccably dressed, the building itself looked like a castle, and everything was designed to impress. I had VIP entrances, a personal handler who remembered my name, and custom-curated “spiritual programs” that made me feel like I was ascending into something divine. I lived at the Celebrity Centre hotel, waited on hand and foot.

They threw exclusive parties for artists like me—rooftop gatherings with candlelight, soft jazz, and whispers of being part of a “special movement.” I was introduced to other rising stars, producers, and influencers.  I performed my music, singing and fashion events, they called us “the future of culture,” and it felt exciting, glamorous, and righteous.

They told me my creativity was sacred, my voice was powerful, my influence was needed.
They said I had a spiritual responsibility to “clear the planet.”
They flattered my ego while slowly ensnaring my soul.

Every meeting felt like a privilege. Every smile, every hand on my shoulder, every “Joy, we believe in you” was a layer of grooming. They never called it recruitment. They called it “enlightenment.” It felt a bit like… seduction.

They weren’t just selling me on ideas. They were selling me on me—the version of me I always dreamed I could be. Powerful. Purposeful. Famous. Loved.

I was wined and dined spiritually—told I was a rising star, a powerful “being” here to save the world. I wanted to believe that. I needed to. But everything changed when I went to Saint Hill, the UK headquarters of Scientology.

Saint Hill was nothing like the luxury of Hollywood. It was cold. Brutal. Controlled. But instead of ascending, I found myself spiraling.

Saint Hill wasn’t red carpets and Hollywood charm. It was cold, militaristic, and suffocating. I was sent there to complete my full minister’s training up to Class V, and to begin my OT Preps—preparation for the highest and most secretive levels of Scientology. Levels that promised I would become something like a god. The training was 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, which meant sitting through hours of mind-numbing texts, robotic e-meter drills, and emotionless supervision. I wasn’t alone—Bella Cruise, Tom Cruise’s daughter, was in the same training lineup as me. She looked so sad. Eyes hollow, head down, just going through the motions. We were all trapped in the same invisible prison—conditioned to smile, nod, obey.

The experience was like spiritual boot camp in a dystopian world. Every hour was regulated. Every meal overpriced. I wasn’t allowed to live just anywhere—I was told which apartments I could rent, only by the “on-lines” people they approved, and the rental prices were extraordinarily high for a simple flat. I ate at the Refectory, where bland food was served at premium prices. I wasn’t just a student. I was a captive in a bubble I eventually couldn’t afford to stay in.

I got in trouble once—serious ethics trouble—for ordering a pizza from outside and bringing it onto the base. I remember hiding behind my door, eating in secret, my heart racing. It was greasy, hot, delicious—and forbidden. That small act of rebellion gave me a fleeting moment of pleasure. I didn’t care anymore. I was starting to wake up.

A tiny moment of self-determined joy.

But the worst moments came late at night.

After sessions, after hours of auditing, I’d be in a room with other Sea Org members, compiling folders. Paper after paper, file after file—documenting confessions, secrets, trauma from “PCs” (pre-clears) who were paying thousands of pounds to “go Clear.” We were the scribes of pain. Organizing it. Labeling it. Logging it like it was data—not humanity. It was one of those nights I met her.

A French woman, maybe in her early 70s, still wearing the regulation Sea Org uniform.
She had once been an actress. A rising star in Paris. She told me how Scientology had recruited her when she was young and beautiful—how they said her talents were best used “serving LRH.” So she gave it all up. The films. The stage. The love. They shipped her to the UK, told her it was her sacred duty.

Now, she lived in a room with six other women, unmarried, childless, forgotten. She made £50 a week. She spent her days auditing paying public, helping them “go OT”—bringing millions into the Church while she aged behind locked gates.

She smiled, faintly. “This is the only life I know now.”

I wanted to scream. But what shattered me… was the auditing.

I was assigned to be audited by a man in his late 70s. He had once been audited by L. Ron Hubbard himself—as a child. He was a relic of the “glory days,” and yet here he was: bent over, exhausted, hunched from osteoporosis, still being forced to work. He audited 6 to 8 hours a day—then cleaned bathrooms and performed manual labor for another 3 hours. His smile was crooked. His eyes were dull. His hands trembled. This was what Scientology does to its most faithful.

And the more I trained, the more I had to audit others. I took on PC after PC—paying clients, desperate for relief, handing over thousands of pounds for “processing” that would get them to Clear. But I got paid nothing.

In fact, I was paying thousands per week just to stay there. Thousands for room and board. For “services.” For endless COVID tests that were required to stay in the UK Bubble. I was going broke just trying to “go free.”

But nothing compares to what happened in the auditing room.

I was in session with a high-ranking Sea Org member—a man from Italy. These sessions are intense and last for hours in a small, private room where everything is audio and video recorded. I was trained to keep perfect “TRs”—my face must be still, unreactive, my voice calm. No matter what they say. No matter how horrifying.

And what he said next almost made me throw up.

He confessed, under auditing, that he had sexually assaulted his younger brother when he was 15 and his brother was 9. Not once. Repeatedly. He said it without emotion. Like it was nothing. He tried to “explain” it—how it was punishment, how his brother had “deserved it.” I remember my blood going ice cold. My stomach twisted. I couldn’t breathe.
But I kept my face perfectly still. I had to.

I was praised later for “keeping good TRs.” I went back to my room and collapsed. I almost vomited into the sink. I curled up on the bed, shaking, horrified—not just by what I’d heard, but that I had been trained to respond with robotic neutrality.
To rape.

How could this man still be in the Sea Org, the most “ethical” group designed to “bring order”?  This was “healing” in Scientology? That moment broke something in me.

After that, everything felt darker. I began questioning what I was really part of. But there was no room for doubt at Saint Hill. Every hour was accounted for. My every emotion monitored, recorded on video and played back for my supervisors to watch and analyze. We were told to “push through,” to “clear the planet.” We were given quotas, deadlines, threats. And the deeper I went, the more I lost myself.

The anxiety got worse. The depression. The fear. I was drowning under the weight of it all, but still afraid to let go. Because Scientology teaches that if you leave, you’ll lose everything—your sanity, your friends, your career, your eternity.

But in my lowest moment, when death seemed the only way out, I didn’t reach for a book or a Scientology process. I cried out: “Jesus, help me.”

I didn’t ask if He was real. I knew He was. Somewhere deep in my spirit, I had always known.
And He showed up. Not with more rules or policies—but with peace. Love. Clarity.

Leaving Scientology was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But it was also the best.

Now, I’m telling the truth.
The truth they never wanted me to speak.
Because I’m done being silent.

My new book, From Scientology to Christ: The Escape They Never Wanted Me to Make, shares the full story—how I got in, what I experienced in Hollywood and the UK, and how God pulled me out of the darkness.
👉 Available now on Amazon

If you’re in Scientology—or any abusive system—and you’re scared to leave, let me tell you something from the other side: You will survive. You are not crazy. And freedom is more beautiful than you can imagine.